Kiss & Tell Read online

  Kiss and Tell

  by

  Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner

  This is a work of fiction; names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Square Pegs Ink

  Text copyright © 2014 Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the authors’ permission.

  Editor: Kate Michael Gibson

  Katemichaelgibson.com

  Willy’s Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

  Willy was a believer in Murphy’s Law. She didn’t believe in God per se, but she did believe in the Law of Murphy. Just when you thought nothing could get worse, it inevitably did. Just when you thought you might catch a break because enough bad shit had already happened, then it rained and things got even worse.

  Willy was born Wilhelmina Juanita Stillwell—which could explain why she always saw the glass as half empty. The Wilhelmina part of her name came from her grandmother on her mother’s side and the Juanita part came from her father’s Hispanic side. It was an odd combination even by Arkansas standards. Willy was born and raised in Hope, Arkansas, the same town as Bill Clinton and, like Bill, she had fled the backwoods as soon as she was able.

  The day after college graduation, Willy shortened her name, bought an army knapsack, filled it with clothes from Goodwill, and took the first Greyhound out of state. She stayed on the bus all the way to its final destination of Seattle. She only stopped there because it was as far away as she could get without a boat. That was twenty years ago and she still couldn’t completely drop her Arkansas twang or get used to the constant rain.

  Today was the worst day of Willy’s life. In all of her thirty-eight years, she had never experienced a worse day. It all started when she woke up to the sun shining brightly through her bedroom window. Sunshine may at first seem like a good thing, but Willy knew better than to trust sunny days. They were few and far between and all they did was lift your spirits so that they could crush them later on when the rain clouds moved in.

  Willy groaned, rolled out of bed and shuffled her feet to the bathroom. She looked in the mirror. Sweet Lord, did she ever look awful. Like something the cat had dragged in. No, worse than that. She looked like something the cat had dragged in, eaten, coughed up, eaten again, digested, and then shit in one of her shoes. That was how bad she looked.

  Willy showered and put on her pants, shirt, vest, tie, and fedora. She was born in the year of Annie Hall and considered that an omen. She had worn men’s suits ever since she left home. And every morning as she pulled up her argyle socks and tied her oxford shoes, she thought about how if her mother saw her now she would have a regular conniption fit. That thought cheered her.

  Willy walked into the kitchen, popped a bagel into the toaster, and turned to look at her girlfriend, Afton, who was sitting at the table. Afton had long hair. On one side of her head. The other side was shaved. She reminded Willy of those carnival freaks that were half man, half woman. She didn’t know what color Afton’s real hair was because it was dyed jet black. She couldn’t even get a hint of her natural hair color by looking at her carpet because she had no carpet. Afton’s nose was pierced. Her ears had seven piercings in each one. Her lip and eyebrows were pierced. So were her nipples and clit and belly button. In fact, Afton had so many piercings and chains that she jangled when she walked. The good thing about it was that it was like putting a bell around a cat’s neck—she couldn’t sneak up on you. And if she stood in a stiff breeze she sounded like a wind chime.

  Afton and Willy had been together for six months. It was the longest relationship Willy had ever had. She usually fucked up relationships long before the honeymoon phase was even over. The only reason she had stayed with Afton this long was because it was Afton’s apartment and the rent was free and that made her try harder to be good. That might make Willy a horrible person, but it was the truth. And the only thing worse than being a horrible person was being a horrible person who lied to oneself.

  Willy bit into her bagel and eyed Afton as she sipped chai tea. Willy didn’t know what the fuck chai tea was, but she thought it smelled like cat piss. “Do you have anything to say to me?” Willy asked.

  Afton looked at Willy and slow-blinked.

  “Like, what kind of day it is?” Willy hinted.

  Afton said blandly, “Rainy?” Afton’s I.Q. was questionable.

  Willy shook her head. “Try again.”

  “Sunny?”

  “Here’s a hint. It has nothing to do with the weather.”

  Afton sipped and appeared to think about it. “I give up.”

  “It’s my birthday,” Willy said.

  “Awesome,” Afton said. “Happy Birthday.”

  “Yeah, awesome,” Willy muttered as she walked out the door. “Happy awesome fuckin’ birthday to me.”

  Willy straddled her bicycle and pedaled down the street. The sun was shining brightly, birds chirped merrily and the aroma of fresh ground coffee wafted in the air. She thought that this day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  She was wrong.

  Allistair’s Fantastic, Terrific, Very Good Day

  Today was the first day of the rest of Allistair’s life. Allistair Benning was a firm believer in beginning each day with a list of gratitudes. Today was no different. She hopped out of bed, threw open her bedroom window, sucked in a lungful of fresh morning air and shouted, “I am grateful for the sun on this bright, beautiful morning! I am grateful for my wonderful apartment! I am grateful for my health! I am grateful for my job!”

  “I’d be grateful if you’d shut the hell up!” shouted a woman across the street.

  Allistair leaned out her window and waved brightly at Miss Crankypants. “I’m grateful for you, too, neighbor!”

  “Yeah? You won’t be so fuckin’ grateful when I get my gun and shoot your ass!”

  Allistair quickly shut the window and drew the curtains. The woman probably wouldn’t actually shoot her, but you could never be too careful.

  Allistair Benning was a Seattleite through and through. It might be a generalization that all Washingtonians loved coffee, grunge music, and fashionable rainwear, but that was exactly what Allistair did love. She grew up in the heart of Seattle and Seattle was in her heart. She was upper middle-class with professors for parents. Her parents were so involved with their teaching and their own continuing education that Allistair was treated as an afterthought.

  She was her parent’s little show pony. They brought her out at dinner parties, had her recite a poem standing in front of the half-drunk guests in her footed pajamas and then sent her off to bed.

  Her mother and father certainly weren’t the warm, fuzzy types. She never saw them hug, touch affectionately, or kiss. As a result she grew up in a cold, sterile environment devoid of most human interaction.

  Allistair didn’t even know her own sexual orientation until her mother told her. She was sixteen years old when her mother threw open her bedroom door and stared down at her lying on her bed. Allistair was reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. She set the book aside, saying, “Mother, how many times have I asked you to knock first?”

  “You’re a lesbian,” her mother said, crossing her arms.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been reading this Camille Paglia book and you fit the profile,” her mother said.

  “You’re profiling me?” Allistair asked.

  Her mother ticked off symptoms on her fingers, “You don’t wear make-up. You show no interest in boys. You do
n’t eat meat. You have close personal relationships exclusively with girls and you always wear sensible shoes.”

  “I have flat feet and the only make-up I can wear has to be hypo-allergenic,” Allistair said.

  “Hmm… You should masturbate,” her mother said.

  “Mother!” Allistair exclaimed. She had never been so embarrassed in her young life. She buried her head under her pillow.

  “Do it while thinking of a boy. Then do it while thinking of a girl,” her mother said. “See which one works best.”

  “I patently refuse to do that.”

  “Let me know. If you’re really a lesbian I could use you as a case study. I could write some interesting papers. I can’t wait to tell your father. He’ll be so excited,” her mother said, walking out of the room.

  Allistair ran to the door and slammed it behind her mother. She bought a lock the next day. Then she masturbated. Her mother had been right—it worked better with girls.

  On this bright and beautiful morning, Allistair slipped on her fuzzy bunny slippers and went to the kitchen. She plugged in the toaster, the coffee maker, and the microwave. She always unplugged everything electrical in the house before she went to bed each night. She had read that the majority of household fires were caused by faulty wiring and shorts in normal household appliances. So not only did she unplug each device, she also tapped the plug on the counter exactly three times to shake off any lingering electrical impulses. You could never be too careful.

  While the coffee brewed, Allistair went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She made sure to give each tooth its very own twelve up-and-down strokes. Thirty-two teeth with twelve strokes each took exactly six minutes. She spit into the sink, rinsed her mouth and toothbrush and walked back into the kitchen just in time to see the last drop of coffee drip into the pot.

  Allistair loved it when things went exactly as planned. She had her life planned down to the millisecond.

  In fact, the only thing in her life that had not gone as planned was romance. She was an attractive woman and had plenty of options; it wasn’t that. But every time she got involved with a woman, they didn’t… how should she phrase this? They didn’t live up to her expectations. Was it too much to ask to have a partner who shared her common interests and life goals and didn’t mind plugging in the toaster each morning?

  There had been Sally. Sally had, at first, seemed like she was The One. Until Allistair found out that Sally was an unorganized hoarder. Her stacks of newspapers were understandable, but the fact that they weren’t in chronological order Allistair found extremely disturbing. How could you put a paper from 1997 right next to another from 2002? It defied all logic.

  Then there had been Sarah. Sarah was tall and gorgeous. Allistair found out the hard way that looks weren’t everything when she discovered that Sarah was really Sam. Not the Samantha kind of Sam either.

  And last but not least was Susan. Susan was the best of everything. She was rich and beautiful and had a high-powered job. There was only one teeny tiny problem. Susan was a sadist. Susan liked to inflict pain and Allistair spent her life trying to avoid pain. Susan and Allistair reached an impasse. Looking back on it, Susan’s leather panties should have been a red flag, but you know what they say about hindsight.

  So what did Allistair learn from all this? Never date a woman whose name began with an S. Not really. What Allistair really learned was that she needed to spend time getting to know a person before she fell in love with them.

  And that is exactly what she had been doing for the past six months. Allistair had joined the lesbian online dating site Littlepinkbook.com. After sorting though a zillion emails from what seemed like every lesbian in the Pacific Northwest, she had finally found her perfect match. Her name was 0699.

  Actually, that was her number. She didn’t know her name. Allistair had forbidden the exchanging of names or physical attributes until after they got to know each other mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. If all those areas clicked then Allistair was certain their physical bodies would also click.

  According to her online profile, 0699 enjoyed black coffee, rainy days, and kale smoothies. Her pet peeves were people who “flew by the seat of their pants” and “didn’t believe in planning their life.” She also despised procrastinators and mouth-breathers.

  Allistair and 0699 had many common interests. For instance, they both enjoyed categorizing and preparing the emergency kits that they always stowed in the trunks of their car. They believed in being prepared for any type of disaster, natural or otherwise. They spent many hours chatting online about the purported shelf life of Ensure or if beef jerky should be an essential part of the kit.

  Allistair and 0699 both carried large purses, which also doubled as seat cushions, pillows, or emergency flotation devices. 0699 professed her love for Allistair the day that Allistair shared with her a paper she had written entitled: Fifty-one Life-Saving Hacks to Do with Your Bra in the Event of a Natural Disaster.

  For her part, Allistair knew she was in love with 0699 when 0699 showed her the list of one hundred and one things to do with a dryer sheet.

  As Allistair ate her one piece of dry toast and drank her bitter, black coffee, she stared at her wall calendar. Today’s date was circled in bright red pen. Why? Because it was going to be the best day of Allistair’s life. Tonight she was finally going to meet the love of her life. 0699 and Allistair were scheduled to meet at The Bourgeois Pig bistro for dinner.

  After she finished breakfast and washed her coffee cup, Allistair dressed for success in a wrap-around dress (which could be made into a shawl or a skirt depending on how you wrapped it), put on just a touch of make-up (mascara, lip gloss), unplugged everything in her apartment (except the refrigerator), grabbed her big shoulder bag and headed out the door to greet the glorious sunshine.

  She hummed a jaunty tune as she climbed into her BMW. She turned on the radio, making sure it was tuned in to NPR, and pulled out onto the street.

  Allistair couldn’t wait for the first day of the rest of her life to begin.

  Ask Allie

  The following is an excerpt from the nationally syndicated column Ask Allie:

  Dear Allie,

  For the past three years I have been having a wonderful relationship with my girlfriend. Everything about her is perfect. We love each exclusively, the sex is great, we share all our problems and joys. We fall asleep each and every night talking to each other. The only problem is that she wants to meet me now. You see, we met online and she lives in California and I live in Georgia. We’ve conducted our entire relationship via Skype and texting. I told her that I like things the way they are, but she gave me an ultimatum: we either meet in the flesh or she breaks up with me.

  What do I do?

  Scared S***less

  Dear Scared,

  I agree with your girlfriend. It’s time to take your relationship to the next level. And as long as you’ve been honest with each other there’s nothing to worry about. So, take a deep breath and make the plunge. You’ll be happy you did. (Or not, but it’ll be best to know before you waste your entire life on her.)

  Also, did you know that drinking a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar a day will keep the ulcers at bay? It does a good job cleaning out the plumbing, too.

  Sincerely,

  Allie

  Namaste

  Willy chained and locked her bike to the street sign outside where she worked. The sign read: No Parking Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday, between the hours of 5 a.m. and 9 p.m. except on Thursdays between the hours of seven a.m. and seven thirty a.m. and never on holidays.

  “You have to have a friggin’ PhD. to figure out when and where you can park in this town,” Willy said to the homeless man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. The man had yellow teeth and a long beard. He smelled like chicken soup. He smiled and toasted in her direction with a Starbuck’s Mocha Caramel Macchiato.

  Willy shook her head in disgust. Only in Seattle would th
e homeless be able to afford an expensive coffee. “Why don’t you get a job?” Willy said.

  “Why don’t you?” the homeless man retorted.

  “I have a job,” Willy said.

  “So do I,” the homeless man said.

  “Then why are sitting in front of my store begging for money?”

  “That’s my job,” the homeless man asked. “This is your store?”

  “I don’t own it, if that’s what you mean,” Willy said.

  “You said ‘your store.’ Usually when a person refers to something as theirs that means they own it. So what do you do in there? Why is there a picture of a tooth on the door?”

  “Because we make teeth,” Willy said defensively. “Dentures. Crowns. You know, you could use a few decent teeth yourself.”

  The homeless man shrugged. “I bet I make more money than you do.”

  “Gross or take-home?” Willy asked.

  “Either,” the homeless man said.

  Willy knew better than to challenge him. She was in the lower tax bracket and knew it wouldn’t take much to make more than she did. “Get off my sidewalk before I call the cops,” she growled.

  “This your sidewalk?” the homeless man said. “You own it?”

  “Fuck you,” Willy said.

  “Hostility will give you high blood pressure,” the homeless man said. “You need to release that negative energy before it kills you.”

  Willy opened the door to Nothing But The Tooth, stepped inside and slammed it behind her. Well, okay, she tried to slam it behind her. But it had one of those arm thingies that made the door slow-close.

  “Namaste,” the homeless man called after her.

  “Namaste, my ass,” she grumbled. Willy walked into the break room, grabbed her time card, and stuck it in the time-stamp machine that was hanging on the wall. She thought of it as the time machine—because once you stuck your time card in it, time slowed and only crept forward, making eight hours feel more like three weeks.